


Perhaps Slightly

by Isa1187



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 08:23:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8364979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isa1187/pseuds/Isa1187
Summary: Genji misses touch more than anything else.





	

Touch doesn't exist anymore. 

At least, that's what Genji tells himself as he adapts to his reconstructed body, a synthetic shell of a thing full of metal bones and carbon-fiber muscles and dead nerves. He grips the edge of the examination table with inhuman strength, rebuilt nerves faintly registering the shape and coldness of the metal. His sensors have none of nuanced sensitivity of human skin. 

"It's a work in progress," Dr. Ziegler says, as she does almost every day while she works on improvements. Genji grimaces under his mask as he watches the open delight on her face. Dr. Ziegler is always quick to reassure him that he owes her no debt, that his body is his own, but the awareness that he's someone else's life's work chafes under the skin that he no longer has. Today she chatters brightly as she places thin, textured layers of synthetic skin on top of synthetic muscles, talking him through the next round of planned upgrades and fixes, asking how Genji is settling into Overwatch and whether any of his most recent upgrades have caused any problems. Although Genji's hearing is perfect, better than it was when he was merely human, Dr. Ziegler's words slip through his audial processors without leaving behind any meaning. 

"I have been working on the calibration problems, Genji," the doctor says, finally breaking through his thoughts. "The stabilization algorithms involved are quite complex. I hoped that the routines from one of the older models of humanoid omnics would be successful, but we've been analyzing them and your particular pattern of variable density may require a whole new set of equations."

Genji nods, almost grateful that his visor hides the way his face scrunches up in disappointment, almost glad that his ruined tear ducts are not capable of functioning. "Thank you for your work," he says, synthetic vocal cords keeping his voice absurdly steady. At least, Genji reflects with bitter satisfaction, his ruined and reconstructed body ensures that there is no way for most observers to see his misery. 

Dr. Ziegler responds, probably to reassure him again that she's sure to find a solution. Genji misses the words, too busy contemplating the way his heart does not speed up despite his stress, and his hands do not threaten to tremble despite his anger, and his voice does not catch despite his sadness. 

"The new skin," he says, interrupting whatever Dr. Ziegler had been telling him, "will it be more sensitive?" 

Dr. Ziegler's silence is all the response he needs, but Genji looks up to catch her expression anyway, hoping for a spark of her usually-boundless optimism. Ziegler's smile slowly fades into a tight, exhausted frown, and _of course_ Genji knows that she has been working tirelessly, and _of course_ he knows that resenting her for saving his life is petty, and _of course_ he knows that it's unreasonable to expect miracle after miracle when she has already pushed past the boundaries of modern medicine in a dozen respects. Nothing he tells himself quells the surge of resentment he feels toward the doctor who is continually saving his life. 

"I'm sorry," she says, after a too-long pause. "Perhaps slightly. I have investigated every avenue of research I can think of. Modern prosthetics have excellent sensory abilities, but that is only possible when there is a pre-existing, functioning nervous system to interface with." She does not need to voice the rest of the thought, that Genji's nerves were largely burned and cut away, that it's yet another miracle that Dr. Ziegler has constructed any sort of nervous system out of too many cold metal wires and too few functioning nerves. "I am sorry," she repeats. 

The next two hours pass silently, as Dr. Ziegler layers synthetic skin onto his hands and forearms piece by careful piece, speaking only to ensure that the extra bulk isn't interfering with his mobility. Genji flexes his hands, absently flipping a shuriken out of his wrist and tossing it between his fingers to demonstrate his agility. "I am fully functional," he says. It's the exact truth. Overwatch will have its perfect weapon, and he will have _this_ , this continued existence that he can't bring himself to call living. 

"We're done for the day, I believe," Dr. Ziegler finally says. She's trying to speak with her usual cheerful optimism, but the edges of her voice remain brittle and dissonant to Genji's overly-sensitive hearing. "Let me know if you have any other problems. I will add a similar layer of skin to your upper arms and torso in a few weeks, if there are no complications." 

Genji stands up, bows, leaves. 

"Have a good day, Genji," Dr. Ziegler calls after him softly. They both know that he will not. In all likelihood he will stalk the Watchpoint's grey hallways, glaring out from under his visor at passing employees who either stare or refuse to look at him. He'll find an empty practice range to haunt, attempting wall-climbing tricks that were once easy, cursing as his miraculous body with its finely-programmed reflexes and half-broken stabilization routines fails to achieve the casual capabilities of merely-human muscle memory. 

Except. Except a Blackwatch agent with a metal arm and a ridiculous hat is leaning against a wall near the lab's exit, and he grins broad and delighted as Genji stalks down the hallway. McCree falls into step beside him. It occurs to Genji that the cowboy must have been waiting for him, and he stares, unprepared for the sudden warmth the thought brings. 

"Hey, partner," McCree says, as he lays an arm across Genji's shoulders. He takes in the smaller man's tense stance. "Bad news?" 

Genji shrugs with feigned casualness. "Only the usual," he says. "Although..." _Perhaps slightly_ , Dr. Ziegler had said. He raises a hand and gazes at it, considering his new synthetic skin and McCree's casual closeness and his own surprised happiness at seeing the cowboy. Genji looks up into McCree's puzzled expression as he smiles under the mask, stepping closer and reaching up to stroke McCree's jaw. He pauses there, thumb rubbing small circles against McCree's jawline, cataloging sensations. His hands _are_ more sensitive, now: he feels the roughness of McCree's stubble and the soft, warm press of skin. It still doesn't compare to the depth of sensation transmitted by human hands, but it's something. It's enough, for now.

Above him, McCree lets out a deep, surprised breath and then leans closer, nuzzling against Genji's visor, caressing the tense synthetic muscle between his shoulder blades. "Darling," McCree says happily, "Is this good?"

" _Yes_ ," Genji says, more forcefully than he intended to. He relaxes into McCree's warm bulk, hesitantly stroking at his face and hair until he just rests, arms wrapped around McCree and visor pressed into the crook of his neck, listening to McCree's quiet breathing and muffled endearments. "Yes," he says again, almost too soft to hear. "This is good."

**Author's Note:**

> Written for McGenji week. 
> 
> I'm thecaryatid on Tumblr.


End file.
